


Patches Down Upon

by coricomile



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Impact Play, M/M, Sibling Incest, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 15:25:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/724817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts, like most things between them, with a fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Patches Down Upon

It starts, like most things between them, with a fight.

Sam has a fist full of papers and Dean's got a belly full of beer, and the air feels like it's going to split wide open. They're not screaming, but Sam's throat feels raw anyway, hot pressure in his veins that's making a red haze across his vision. Dean's yelling about family and duty and saving people, and Sam cocks his fist before he fully registers it. The blood on his knuckles matches the blood curling from the corner of Dean's mouth.

Dean shuts up and looks away, chest heaving and eyes dark. Sam waits for the return blow, waits for the fist to his face, but it never comes. Dean looks away, and when Sam brushes by, he feels the hardness of Dean's cock against his hip.

Sam patches his own knuckles and Dean leaves for the bar. They don't speak for two years. 

Sometimes, Sam catches Dean watching him, his face blank and his fingers curling and uncurling in loose fists. He thinks about the never ending fights and the never ending drives and the never ending string of credit cards and IDs in the glovebox. He thinks about their father saying _watch out for your brother_ , and wonders if it goes both ways around.

Dean kisses him first. They're stinking with mud and staggering under the weight of too little sleep. Sam has a bite mark the size of a fist on his shoulder, bleeding sluggish through his jacket, the risk of infection running high. They're too far from the car, too far from the motel, and there's Dean's hands holding him up, and Dean's mouth hard and slick and full of anger. He tastes like copper and dirt, and Sam kisses back because this is all he has.

It's a razor wire line, a mess of can't and won't and too much and not enough. Sam crawls into Dean's bed after a run in with a banshee. Dean presses him to a wall after a night staking a coven of vampires. They don't talk about it and Sam doesn't ask the questions that are on the tip of his tongue. 

Dean comes to the motel drunk one night, falling down and laughing and raw. Sam can see the guilt in his eyes, knows that there's a handful of children's names in the back of his head that he's blaming himself for. He falls face to the mattress and laughs and laughs and laughs. Sam grabs him up, shakes him.

 _What's wrong with you_? he asks. _What the fuck's your problem?_

And Dean laughs and laughs and leans forward with his sour breath and bloodshot eyes and Sam hits him, a solid blow to the jaw that snaps Dean's head to the side. He stops laughing, but the rawness to his face doesn't leave. He says _again_ , and Sam drops him, skitters back and away. Dean laughs again, rough and on the floor. 

It hits routine. They lose someone, Dean drinks himself dumb, starts fights and doesn't fight back. They miss a clue, a lead, Dean buys a bottle of vodka and bleeds into the morning. Sam doesn't know when the liquor stops being part of the equation, just knows that if he says nothing, Dean won't say anything either. It works, and that's all that matters.

Sam knows it's coming when they step into the room. He tastes ashes in his mouth, tongue dry and heavy with them, bleeding from the hip from a claw gone wild. A Siren, three dead boaters. A blue purple body in the water that they could have saved if they would have been twenty minutes smarter. 

Dean throws off his jacket and filthy, wet shirt, paces the room and reaches for Sam, pulls him in and kisses him like it hurts. And Sam- he can't _deal_ with this bullshit. Not now, not with lake water running down his legs and arms and back, not with blood on his clothes and seaweed in his hair.

He shoves and Dean falls, loose and pliant on the bed. It's not supposed to be this way, and Sam can't fix it, isn't supposed to fix it, doesn't want to be the one _to_ fix it. He unlatches his belt and rips it through, whipcrack slide of leather through damp belt loops. When he flips Dean to his stomach, Dean goes, fingers curling in the bedsheets like it'll help.

The first blow strikes across an old scar, a pink white reminder of something twice gone, leaving an angry red welt in its place. Sam's hand falters, the buckle of the belt hot and heavy in the palm of his hand, but Dean stays still, waiting. Sam tightens his fingers and strikes again.

It becomes white noise, the sound of leather on skin, the sound of Dean choking back sounds of pain. The welts grow uneven and angry, crisscrossing at the bottom of Dean's back, red on tan. Sam's arm feels tired from the day, his hand going numb from the tightness of the belt wrapped around his palm.

He strikes and thinks _we could have stopped it_ , he lays a flat, heavy blow over Dean's shoulder blade and thinks _we're better than this_. Dean's fingers go tight in the sheets, nails biting into his palms. Sam swings the belt until his arm feels sore and his fingers go stiff from being curled. A sharp blow to the center of Dean's back breaks open one of the welts, and blood drips slow across the maze of raised skin.

Sam drops the belt to the floor with a clatter. Dean rolls to his back, hissing as his skin touches the sheets. He raises his hands and Sam crawls over him, thighs outside of Dean's, hands dipping the mattress above Dean's shoulders. Sam's crying, hot tears on his cheeks, heart thump thump thumping against his ribs. Dean shushes him, wipes a thumb over his cheekbone. 

_It's okay_ , he says. _It's okay_. His fingers curl in Sam's damp hair, firm and strong and sure. Sam presses into it, closes his eyes as he feels Dean's free hand slide into his jeans, wrap around his dick and jerk. It makes his sparks go off behind his eyes. He shoves Dean's shoulder, hears the ragged, raw gasp of pain that filters past uninhibited and comes with a jerk of his hips that makes the bed shake.

They sleep on the damp, bloodied sheets, and Sam patches Dean up in the morning, white cotton balls going pink under the fluorescent light of the bathroom. They don't talk about it, and Sam doesn't mention the pull of want low in his belly every time Dean winces.

The road goes on. The paranormal never sleeps, and dead bodies pile up along the country. They kill and they fuck and, when things get hard, Sam slips his belt from its loops and lays neat rows across Dean's back, and it seems easier, if only for a few hours.


End file.
